Free His Good Girl by Dinah McLeod Page A

little while longer, but Kevin texted me bright and early the following morning, reminding me to call her. I received another message at lunchtime, asking me when we were supposed to be there. With a groan that he couldn't hear, I texted back, telling him we could see her on Saturday. It wasn't ideal, but I had finally accepted it was a subject he wasn't going to give on, and in the end I supposed it would be better to get it over with. If he was going to take a look at the life I used to lead, to see the woman I could very well become, it was better he call off the wedding sooner rather than later, if that was where things were headed.
    At least, that's what I told myself at the time. My mind went back and forth on the subject many, many times before the weekend rolled around, not that I had much of a choice with regards to backing out. I'd said Saturday, and barring any life-threatening illnesses—or at least a fever—I wasn't going to get out of it. So when Saturday dawned bright and sunny, I rolled out of bed and got dressed to face the day, my expression sullen despite the beautiful weather.
    Part of me wished I had the guts to sit him down and explain. But the truth was, there just weren't enough words to tell him exactly why I would rather he didn't meet my mother—at least, not until he'd said, "I do". She was… eccentric, but that wasn't right. Colorful… but that was being generous. The truth was, if I'd had the words, I probably would have said them, but I simply was at a loss when it came to her.
    "You're quiet," Kevin observed, glancing over at me as he turned down the country dirt road. "You haven't said much since you got into the car. Is something wrong?"
    This. This is very, very wrong. "Just thinking, I guess."
    "About flower arrangements again?" he teased. I gave him a small smile, and regardless of whether he believed that was the reason or not, he let the question drop.
    Turning my head to stare out the window, I watched as we drove past houses I'd grown up running in and out of as a kid. They all still looked the same. Paint peeling, maybe a new flower bed—or the withered remains of an old one—but mostly the same. The occupants would be the same, too, because that's how things are in a small town where no one leaves. When Old Mr. Brown died, his house would pass to his son Robert, who might marry or might not, and who would continue the same day-to-day routine of his father before him. It was so boring it made me want to cry.
    Not that anyone else seemed to see it that way. I was the first person in more than a decade to leave, and my Mama hadn't thanked me for it. She said it made her look bad—when she bothered to talk about it at all.
    When he pulled into the driveway behind her powder-blue Oldsmobile that was going on thirty-five years, I felt my stomach tighten into knots.
    "This is it?" he asked quietly.
    "Mmm-hmm."
    I could feel him beside me, wanting to say something more, but in the end he pulled the keys out of the ignition, walked over to the passenger side and opened my door. I tried to smile at him as I stepped out, but it fell flat.
    "Everything's going to be fine." He pulled me into a side-hug, giving me a little squeeze. "You'll see."
    "Okay." This time I did manage to smile, but it faded the moment he took his arm from around me.
    "Come on."
    "Time to face the music," I deadpanned.
    "Behave yourself," he said, aiming a swat at my behind that was more of a love-pat than a warning. I glared at him anyway.
    I hadn't been to visit my mother in about eight months, since last Christmas. The house looked about the same; the same ferns hanging from the roof of the porch, a mere day or two from death. The same collection of odds and ends that somehow always managed to accumulate on her porch, no matter how many times I removed them. There was an ashtray cradled on the arm of the lone chair that sat on the porch. It was close to overflowing, as usual. I suppressed a sigh and turned to